by Susan Barrie
“A wonderful dinner!” he declared. “A superb dinner! In the whole course of my life I don’t think I ever had a better!” He stood beaming at her, his eyes mellow with the memory of it, and undoubtedly brightening still more when Mr. Leydon placed the bottle of Napoleon brandy on the tray with the glasses. “If you cooked it yourself, Mrs. Fairlie, you must be a Cordon Bleu.”
Alison shook her head. She was still wearing her pale blue overall, and she looked a little heated from the stove, but it was quite obvious she was gratified because her efforts had not gone unacknowledged. Although as yet Charles Leydon had said nothing about enjoying the meal.
“I suppose we can’t persuade you to remain and take coffee with us, Mrs. Fairlie,” he suggested ... but from his tone she gathered that he was quite confident she would refuse.
“Not with all the clearing away still to be done, Mr. Leydon,” she replied. And then in case she sounded ungracious she added hurriedly, “But it’s very good of you to ask me.”
“Not at all.” It was Mr. Minty who spoke. “I think you’ve had a very hectic day, Mrs. Fairlie, and must be quite worn out.”
Once again she shook her head.
“I don’t mind hectic days occasionally.”
She fetched an ash-tray and placed it at Mr. Leydon’s elbow. He stood cutting the end off a cigar and regarding her a trifle strangely.
“Before you go to bed to-night I’d like a few words with you,” he said quietly. “If you’re not too tired, of course.”
She assured him mechanically that she would not be too tired.
“Good.” He puffed fragrant cigar smoke into the room, and his sleek dark head went back in a relaxed manner while he lent one shoulder against the carved mantelshelf. “I’ll ring for you about ten o’clock, if Minty has left by then. If not, it will be later.”
“I’ll come whenever you ring,” she told him, but she couldn’t help wondering what he wanted to talk to her about so late at night. And because she was feeling so very, very tired anxiety took possession of her easily. While Mr. Minty sank luxuriously into his chair and lit his own cigar she retreated quietly from the room, and outside in the kitchen she suddenly had no appetite for the meal that awaited her.
Jenny and Margaret had already done most of the washing-up and clearing away, and Margaret had made a pot of tea and put some titbits on to a plate for Mrs. Fairlie.
“Come now, Mrs. Fairlie,” she coaxed, “you’ve got to eat. Jenny and I have had ours, and if you don’t mind, when we’ve done the last of the washing-up, can we go home?”
“Of course.” Alison was shocked because it was already quite late, and the girls had a longish walk back to the village. She wondered whether she ought to get out the Mini and drive them back. She decided that she ought, but both girls refused.
“As if we mind a bit of a walk,” Jenny said. She smiled at Mrs. Fairlie, who was a considerate employer, and no one ever refused to help her out when necessary. “If you want us tomorrow just let us know,” she said. “Perhaps Mr. Leydon will be staying on for a bit now that he’s here.”
The words echoed hollowly in Alison’s ears once she was alone in the kitchen. The atmosphere was warm, friendly, and the most pleasing smells hung about it still. All the freshly washed and polished saucepans were gleaming on their racks, the great Aga looked spick and span, Jenny’s tea-towels had been swung aloft to dry on a contraption that appeared to have a close affinity with the ceiling. After all the excitement and the bustle there was a profound air of peace.
But Alison was feeling far from peaceful as she toyed with the food in front of her. She told herself that she would be kept awake with indigestion if she ate roast pheasant at that hour, and after a few minutes’ pretence she pushed the plate away from her. She drew a coffee-pot towards her and poured herself a cup of coffee, and then she rummaged in the pockets of her overall and produced a packet of cigarettes and lit one.
She didn’t smoke very often, but she felt like one now. As the smoke curled upwards to the ceiling she kept seeing Charles Leydon’s face, filled with after-dinner complacency, while he cut the end off his cigar and watched her. There was an old saying about a cat having a right to look at a king, but Charles Leydon hadn’t any real right to look at her like that when she had had such a hard day.
Before she took the coffee into the library she had powdered her nose and combed her hair, but her expression must have been weary, and her overall was not as immaculate as it had been when she put it on. It was a well-cut overall and the shade of blue lent depth to her eyes, but an overall in itself was a badge of servitude. She felt very far below him—although in actual fact she was nothing of the kind—in social status as she stood there like a well-trained parlourmaid or housekeeper and knew that even if her legs gave way under her she hadn’t the right to sit down, despite the fact that he had asked her to take coffee with them.
That was purely mechanical courtesy, and she was perfectly well aware that he had not expected her to accept.
And now, as she sipped her coffee and took nervous pulls at her cigarette, she wondered what she was going to hear when he sent for her.
Every instinct she possessed warned her that she was not going to hear anything that she would like ... There had been a touch of grimness in his expression when he said he wanted to talk to her, and the only thing he was likely to talk to her about was Leydon Hall.
He had plans for Leydon Hall, she felt certain of that. They might even be plans that would shock and disturb her, affecting her own life, and the lives of Marianne, Jessamy and Lorne. That morning he had talked about pulling the house down and building a township. She had no real fear that he would do anything like that, because the operation would be too vast and local permission would most certainly not be granted, even if he found a number of backers.
But there were other things he could do with Leydon Hall. There were quite a number of things. He could sell it, put it on the market for use as an institution of some sort, such as a school. Dependent upon a wild flight of imagination it could become an hotel—a luxury hotel. The situation was all in favour of an hotel, but the alterations would be expensive. However, Charles Leydon was reputed to be an extremely wealthy man, and he was also an architect. It would probably give him an immense amount of pleasure to destroy Leydon as it stood and rebuild it along lines that would appeal to modern tastes.
There was one other thing he could do with Leydon ... He could convert it into flats. That, too, would call for his architectural skill. It would be like the answer to a challenge if he could combine the charm of the old with all the up-to-the-minute advantages and amenities of the new.
The one thing she was sure he would not do was preserve it as it was as an historic monument, and he certainly would not live in it.
She knew, in her heart, that whatever he planned to do it would mean that she would have to give up her flat, and that would mean a new life altogether for her. A life from which she shrank, although it could have advantages for the girls. She didn’t know...
She was contemplating the dregs of the coffee in her cup when the bell that was intended to summon her to the presence jangled discordantly just outside the door. She sat very still for a moment, and it jangled again. Then she rose, took a quick look at herself in a small mirror beside the dresser, and made for the door.
She tapped on the door of the library, received permission to enter, and found Mr. Leydon the only occupant of the shabby, book-lined room that smelled of musty bindings and burning apple logs. Mr. Minty had apparently taken his departure and his client was stretched comfortably in one of the deepest of the leather chairs, and he had plainly been examining some of the books on the shelves, for he held one of them in his hands.
“Sit down, Mrs. Fairlie.” He did not rise when she entered, but he nodded at the chair facing him—the one vacated recently by the solicitor. “Would you like something to drink? There’s some sherry over there in that corner cupboard.”
&nbs
p; “No, thank you.”
“Would you like some brandy?”
“I’ve never drunk brandy in my life.”
“There always has to be a first time.” There were spare glasses on the tray because she had not been certain whether he wanted ordinary liqueur glasses or the big, bulbous ones out of which cognac is usually drunk. He and Mr. Minty had made use of the bulbous ones, and that left a couple of unused small ones on the tray. Before she could prevent him he lifted one and poured a very small quantity of brandy into it. “Sip it,” he advised. “Inhale the bouquet. Tell yourself that it’s nectar. In a way it is.” Alison accepted the glass but regarded the contents dubiously. On an empty stomach, and with her senses reeling with tiredness and her back and legs aching with weariness, the effect was unpredictable ... But he was watching her intently on the other side of the fire, and he was plainly under the impression that his hospitality was something to be appreciated. She took her first sip while his strangely quiet grey eyes more or less compelled her, and then she felt a trickle of inner warmth that was much more pleasing than his approving nod.
“Did you have dinner yourself?”
“I ... wasn’t very hungry.”
“Meaning you skipped dinner, and possibly lunch. Tell me about yourself, Mrs. Fairlie,” he commanded. “Fill in the gaps in the information I have already received about you. You have lived here for about five years, isn’t that so?”
“Yes. My husband was a friend of the late Sir Francis, and he allowed him to occupy the flat where we still live.”
“Your husband was, I believe, a professor of dead languages. Did he teach?”
“No, he was writing a book. It took him a long time. He wasn’t very strong ... She sent him a covert glance. “He was a very studious man, one who lived almost entirely in the past. The present had no appeal for him.”
“Indeed?” Once again his eyebrows ascended. “But he had three daughters, and presumably he was married before he married you. One cannot say that his interest in life was entirely academic.”
The brandy was warming her, and the glow was spreading. But his manner of making an observation there was no disputing filled her with embarrassment. She endeavoured to explain.
“My—my husband wasn’t really the sort of man who found marriage very much to his taste. His first was a failure, and his wife died. When I married him it was because it seemed the only thing to do, and actually it worked out. My father was a financier who got into trouble and—and shot himself...” She licked her lips. “I advertised for a job under an assumed name, and Roger—my husband—answered it. He wanted someone to teach music to his little girls, and to look after Jessamy. He had a flat in London at that time. After I’d been with them for six months he suggested that we married, because otherwise the situation was rather odd. I’d grown very fond of the girls by that time, and I agreed. It—it wasn’t altogether a—a normal marriage...”
“No?” he said, and waited for her to continue.
“I mean,” struggling with a blush and an absurd sensation of sleepiness that was creeping over her, “we were good friends, but nothing more! I nursed him when he was ill, and I promised to look after the girls—always! Of course I’ll keep my promise. I—we—we’re great friends.”
There was no doubt about it, the brandy fumes were mounting to her head. She looked down rather stupidly into her empty glass, and she felt him take it from her and set it on the tray. She smiled sleepily.
“It’s the warmth of the fire ... and I haven’t really s-sat down to-day! This is the first time I’ve ever sat here in the library of Leydon—”
“Why did you come and live at Leydon?”
“Because Roger lost his money ... or nearly all of it! He bought some shares.”
“What happened to them?”
She made a little gesture with her hands.
“Knowing what happened to your father, couldn’t you have advised him against it?”
“I did, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“I see. And after that you came here?”
“Yes.”
“Did you like the late Sir Francis?”
“He was very kind.”
“You acted as a kind of caretaker here?”
She nodded.
“In the summer I—I showed people round...” She wished he wouldn’t keep trying to drag information out of her, but would simply let her lie back there comfortably and close her eyes. Her eyelids felt weighted with lead. It was becoming increasingly difficult to form words. “I—I made cakes and things and s-served teas ... sometimes lunches—”
“And Sir Francis paid you to act the part of caretaker for him?”
“Oh, no, he—he knew Roger wouldn’t like that. But he let us live here—cheaply.”
“Have you an agreement?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that.”
“Do you realise you may not be able to go on living here?”
She sent him an imploring look. This was too much for her to grasp, too much for her to cope with.
In any case, it no longer seemed to matter. The only thing that mattered was that this inquisition should cease, and that he would have the common humanity to let her close her eyes—just for an instant.
Half an hour later she was still asleep, and he hadn’t made a move. Then he noticed that the fire was getting low, and already, as a result, the room seemed to be growing chill. Alison, in her enormous chair, looked small by comparison, and although her golden hair looked bright against the dark red velvet of the cushion that supported her head her small oval face, by comparison with her gay blue overall, looked pale and pinched.
He got up suddenly, taking an extraordinary amount of care not to disturb her, and made up the fire.
CHAPTER IV
Alison awakened in her own room next morning with a sensation that something was very far from right. As she lay striving to clear her brain and to think what it was memory asserted itself, and she received a shock.
She could recall a hand on her arm, shaking her ... not particularly gently, but at the same time not ungently. The room was dark, except for feeble firelight, and someone who appeared enormous in that distorting twilight bent over her and spoke to her urgently.
“You’ll have to go upstairs to bed, Mrs. Fairlie. There’s no more fuel, and I can’t keep the fire going any longer. It’s cold, and you’ll catch a chill ... we’ll both catch a chill! I’m sorry, because you were sleeping so peacefully.”
Alison struggled up, but she was too confused to be aware of having done anything outrageous. That was to come later, when she was more alert. All she could do was stammer something that sounded like:
“Did I fall asleep? How silly! What time is it? You should have wakened me!”
“I hadn’t the heart to waken you, and it’s two o’clock.”
“Two o’clock?” She gasped at him, and then she sprang to her feet in horror.
“Mr. Leydon, I’m terribly sorry! I—I don’t understand how it happened...” She started groping for the electric light switch, but he reached it ahead of her. As the light flashed on she became aware of her dishevelled appearance—that is to say, she couldn’t see herself, but she knew her coil of hair had come undone and a pale gold strand was dangling in front of her eyes. She thrust it aside with her hand, and became aware of her crumpled overall.
Two o’clock, and he looked rather grim, although his eyes were quite expressionless. She received the distinct impression that he wasn’t so much annoyed as disconcerted by the brightness of the light himself. He put a hand up to his chin and felt it.
“I’m beginning to need a shave! Perhaps I’d better have one before I go to bed. In fact, I don’t think I’ll go to bed at all.”
“Don’t be silly.” She didn’t know how she dared say it to him, but she did. There was an absurd intimacy in the atmosphere, both standing blinking at one another out of slightly bleary eyes, and he definitely did need a shave. His chin was clothed in dark and
noticeable stubble. “Of course you must go to bed, but I’ll renew your hot-water bottles before you do. The ones that are in your bed now will be stone cold. I’ll slip out to the kitchen—”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind.” He, too, could be firm despite the hour. “If my bottles are cold they can stay cold. In any case, I don’t like hot-water bottles. Now, which way do you go?”
They were groping their way across the hall, because the electric light switches were far apart. It was a somewhat ghostly, eerie experience in a centuries-old house, but Alison was too accustomed to it to feel nervous. Besides, she had the tall, silent shape of Mr. Leydon at her elbow.
“I’ll go up the main staircase and along the connecting corridor. You go in the opposite direction.”
“I’ll find my way.”
But when she realised he was disappearing down the wrong corridor when they reached the top of the stairs she flew after him and put him right.
“Your room is the fourth door from the end of the gallery. This way!”
By this time he was feeling irritated, and he scowled at her.
“I could have found it myself. Get yourself to bed!” he growled.
But she still insisted on opening the door of his room, and was perturbed because his fire was practically out. All her careful preparations, and now he was to go to bed in the cold after all!
That was in the early hours of the morning. Now, at eight o’clock—and she was further startled to discover it was so late, because she always rose at a quarter to seven in order to make certain Lorne had a proper breakfast before catching her school bus to Murchester—it all came back to her, and she wondered how she was going to face Mr. Leydon in the broad light of day.
